


Long Gone

by GendrysNorthernWench



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Funerals, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 18:20:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GendrysNorthernWench/pseuds/GendrysNorthernWench
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek loses Stiles for good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Gone

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Teen Wolf and make no financial gain from this work. 
> 
> This is my first Teen Wolf fic, so please don't eat me if I fuck it up.

The loft is quiet without Stiles.

Some days, Derek wakes up, expecting to feel long, toned limbs wrapped around him like a freckled koala, others, he listens for the –surprisingly tuneful- voice singing along to the radio whilst pottering about the kitchen making breakfast for the two of them. Derek can never decide if it’s those days, or the ones where he wakes up screaming that are the worst.

Both of them hurt.

Today is a day of phantom caresses and sleepy cuddles and when the werewolf remembers that no, Stiles isn’t curled up in his arms, muttering gibberish and twitching like a bunny, the pain hits him like a freight train.

He thinks that a freight train would be preferable than how he feels now.

It’s been three months since the accident, and every day brings a new wave of shit and self-loathing. Each and every single fucking day is another day where he doesn’t get to see his mate. Get to hold him in his arms, kiss him silly when he goes off on some inane tangent about the history of the toaster, fuck into his tight, pliant body, swallowing moans and gasps and pleas for more as he brings them both to completion.

Derek hauls himself up from the battered couch in the lounge, running a hand through greasy hair and grimacing at the taste of stale booze on his tongue, and heads towards the kitchen to brew coffee strong enough to leave the spoon standing up in, grabbing his phone as he goes. The kitchen looks like a bombsite, left over take-out boxes and empty bottles litter every available surface along with a layer of dust that his mother would string him up for.

If she were still alive, that is.

Flicking the buttons on the hi-tech coffee machine Lydia insisted he buy all those months ago, Derek checks his phone, sighing when he sees three days of unanswered messages and calls on the screen. He knows it’s not fair on the pack, but he can’t bring himself to return their calls, to act like a good alpha should, help them through the pain and in return be helped. Instead, he spends his days staring aimlessly at the wall, sometimes the ceilings, and his nights sinking cheap bottles of booze laced with a strain of aconite like they’re sugar water.

The burning sensation stopped weeks ago.

Sometimes, he gets angry, he screams and curses and throws things until he has no more strength left, before sinks to the ground in a heap, tears streaking his face in what feels like a never ending flood. Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly brave –or stupid- he’ll slink up the wrought iron stairs to the second floor, and inhales the slowly fading scent of them. Cinnamon, chemicals and something Derek’s never been able to define because it’s so uniquely Stiles, blending with the smell of wet earth and spices that grows stronger every time he ventures upstairs.

It’s a cruel and shallow mockery of their time together.

If Derek closes his eyes and concentrates hard enough, he can hear the rapid click of computer keys, bright laughter and expressive groans of exasperation and whines of petulance. Can see the two of them wrapped up in the old afghan, watching a film and spending half the time sharing long, lazy kisses and lingering touches.

It gets harder to remember those things with each passing day.

               

The hiss and ding of the coffee machine alerts Derek that his drink is done, and the werewolf startles, lost in the memories that linger in corners like faded photographs. He contemplates how easy it would be to put a bullet in his brains, a silver one, laced with mountain ash and wolfsbane.

There’s no coming back from that, werewolf or not.

But he deserves to suffer, deserves to live with the pain of knowing he killed his mate, that he took away a son, a brother, a friend and a lover, because he was too damn stupid to use his words. He thinks on how if only he’d followed Stiles that night, instead of throwing a mug at the wall and seething quietly, wonders if only he’d gotten there sooner, that he wouldn’t have been too late, that the bite could have saved him. Instead, he died in agony, impaled on a tree and left hanging there like some macabre decoration as his lungs slowly filled with blood, gasping and wheezing for breath, alone and so, so scared. Clinging onto consciousness, for when help he hoped for would come.

Derek remembers long, spidery fingers reaching up to stroke down his cheek as blood dribbled from the corner of parted lips, whispered apologies and the ghost of a smile that could light up a room resting on them like snowflakes. He remembers the heart-wrenching howl the Sheriff let out as he rushed towards the scene, watched EMT’s pull his only child from the branch, Scott on his heels, the both of them crumpling to the icy ground, clutching at each other as the sheriff begs Scott to bite Stiles, to bring his baby boy back, and Scott’s broken apologies because he can’t, he can’t bring his brother back.

Nobody can.

The coffee in the cup is cooling rapidly as Derek’s mind plays back one of the worst moments of his life;

The Funeral

Everyone dressed in black, Allison clinging to Scott by the graveside, holding him together, Melissa doing the same for Sheriff Stilinski. Erica’s sobbing as she buries her face in Boyd’s neck, Isaac pulled in close to Danny’s side, his beta whimpering and shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, Jackson’s solemn expression as he silently supports Lydia, the banshee biting her lip hard enough to draw blood as she watches the coffin descend into the earth. Cora’s hand a vice-like grip on his as he cries, not the gut-wrenching heaves of the sheriff, or the hitched, erratic chokes of his betas, but silently, slumped and defeated.

The crash of the coffee cup he doesn’t remember picking up shakes Derek from his thoughts, the sound echoing like a nuclear bomb in the emptiness of the loft and he makes a half-hearted attempt at clearing it up before moving back to the couch, wrapping himself in the blanket and trying not to let the hollow weight of having his mate ripped from him swallow him whole.

It’s been three months since he killed Stiles Stilinski.

And Derek doesn’t want to deal with the pain anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

It happens three days after the one year anniversairy of his death, Scott’s eyes glow alpha red and the pack find Derek cold and clammy in his apartment, wrapped in Stiles’ favourite red hoodie, dead and most definitely gone.

No one is surprised. 


End file.
